Where light is blind and shadows dissolve
by ThisGoldenAfternoon
Summary: Sting is only twelve years old, when the darkness that taints some hearts of men reaches out to stain his radiant light. Trying to break his fear of the dark, Jiemma resolves to torture and abuse, and in the end, rather breaks his heart and mind. Rogue tries to help, but has to figure out how, first. Their first steps into adolescence are littered withviolence and pain.
1. Die Hand, die verletzt

"... and such a brave little thing, he was! He seemed to be trembling with fear himself, and he still ventured into the dark pit, only to help us deal with those dreadful wolf-rats. We can't thank your guild enough, Master Jiemma!"  
Even before the kind Lady finishes her sentence, Sting knows that he's screwed.  
The way Jiemma's enormous hand fastens its already painful grip around his arm, until it is nothing but torturous and bruising is more than enough to clue him in on what he's to expect once they make it back to the guild hall.  
He is twelve now, a capable Dragon Slayer; but he's also a member of Sabertooth and he has learned the hard way, not to talk back to the Master. Not when he was in a bad mood; not ever.

So he lets himself get dragged along, always trying his best to control his breathing, for the aura surrounding the brute oafish form that is their Master Jiemma is so thick with malice and hatred that it might make him gag any minute.  
He is well aware, that this would be his untimely end, so he suppresses the choke rising in his throat as good as he can, all the while forcing his muscles into obedience. If he stumbled into his Master now, he'd beat him to within an inch of his life.

Their way home isn't that long, but it feels like miles upon miles for Sting's fear-juggled mind.  
He is well aware of what's to come, and he dreads it on a visceral level, a thundering, vile fear, that is deeply engraved into his bones by now.  
So when Jiemma whirls around and sends Sting crashing into the opposite wall, there is no way for him to muffle the miserable sob rising in his throat.  
He cowers down, arm shielding his face, as their Master draws closer, but the force of the humongous hands throws him back anyway and leaves him with ringing ears and a thick trail of blood trickling down his chin.  
"No more, please! No more!" His mind silently pleads, but by now the boy knows better, than to word his thoughts aloud.  
Jiemma is towering over his shrinking form, eyes aglow with violence, and booms: "Who told you to go there and sully the name of our guild? Who told you to "tremble with fear"? You're a member of Sabertooth and I expect you to act that way! I won't tolerate such a pathetic display of weakness in the ranks of my guild! Do you hear me?"  
Sting is still crouched down, unsure if his shaking limbs would carry his weight, and since his voice is brittle and unsteady with held back sobs, he simply nods his head.  
"DO YOU HEAR ME? ANSWER ME, YOU RUNT!" Jiemma's voice is deafening, but it shocks the boy's vocal cords into obedience. "Yes, Master. I- I understand. I... I will... It won't happen again."  
"Enough with the whining! And speak clearly when you're talking to me! I won't stand a stuttering cretin in my guild!"  
The kick aimed at his ribs takes Sting completely by surprise, so he has no chance to shield himself from the brunt of the impact whatsoever and gets flung right back into the wall.

His vision blurs, darkness closing in on him, as every last bit of air is forced out of his lungs, leaving his skin crawling and tingling.  
Terror rises up in his chest now that he feels his body slowly backing away from him, consciousness dwindling, and only the crazed mantra of "no, no, no, no, don't pass out, he's gonna kill me" his mind screeches, keeps him from slipping into the void.  
"... feet." Jiemma's voice is muted, tuning in and out like a broken radio, and Sting quickly shakes his head hard to dispel the fog - forcing their Master to repeat himself was never a good idea.  
"Get to your feet, you piece of trash! It's high time you finally overcame this childish fear of yours."  
As soon as the blonde has finally staggered to his feet, a rough hand fists into his hair and drags him along mercilessly, as he lets out a sinister laugh.  
"I'll show you, that the darkness is nothing to be afraid of. Just you wait, you little wimp. When I'm done with you the dark will seem like a save haven... I'll teach you true fear."  
With his mind pain-crazed and hazy, Sting didn't even realize where he'd been ushered to, but as the sturdy wooden door, covered in heavy studs, enters his field of vision, he comes dangerously close to fainting.  
He'd never been behind those walls, and yet he's well aware, that the room harbors nothing but dread and despair. Anyone in Sabertooth knows. It's a place where members get dragged to when they loose a fight, fail a mission badly or otherwise attract their Master's raging wrath more than usual.  
Upon return most of them sported dire injuries, some quit the guild without a single word of farewell, while others looked no worse for wear but from that day onward somehow seemed skittish and hollow, the smell of fear clinging to them like a second skin.  
No one ever spoke of what had happened to them. Mostly because it was forbidden by an unwritten law, but secondly because non of the members were close enough to one another to share this kind of experience.  
Except for Sting. In this harsh, cold place he is the only one blessed with a kindred soul to turn to, someone he came to know so intimatley, who's friendship he treasures so much, that the sole thought of somehow not being able to return to their shared room is more threatening than any horrors that Jiemma might have ready for him.  
So, for the sake of a raven-haired boy with warm red eyes and a smooth, calm voice, he reigns his failing body in and steels himself for whatever nightmares await him.

The door opens and Sting only manages a quick glance around, before everything is cloaked in impenetrable darkness. He gets shoved inside and falls to his knees with a heavy, painful thud and the door slams shut, leaving him in a pitch-black nothingness, too thick and oppressive to be natural.  
The muffled voice of his Master drafts through the silence, a sadistic, evil grin laced into the words.  
"We'll start slowly... make yourself at home, Sting. Be patient, good things will come to those who wait. I'll be back for you."  
And with that Sting is all alone in the dark, in a plain empty room that is covered in damp straw, cobwebs and grime.  
He isn't too sure, if that's the usual state of the place, or if Jiemma has it specially prepared for the respective prisoner and he doesn't really want to dwell on the topic all that much, but his mind is already restless and keeps on wandering.  
The first minutes he tries very hard to make out any of his surroundings, but soon it becomes clear, that his eyes won't get accustomed to this kind of darkness and he just lets himself fall to the ground.  
'It's not that bad' , he keeps telling himself. 'We've been camping in a cave that was much scarier...'  
'But Rogue had been with you that time!' A little voice at the back of his head mumbles.  
'And Rogue can always keep the darkness at bay!' The voice was right, with his friend by his side, Sting's fear usually faded into nonexistence, giving way to a warm feeling of tranquility.

But now trapped down here with black covering his vision and numbing his ears, there's only ice-cold fear churning deep inside his guts.  
"Well, but I could fend off the dark on my own as well!" He doesn't even notice he's answing the tiny voice aloud by now, and it doesn't really matter altogether since no one's going to hear him anyway.  
"I mean, I'm the White Dragon Slayer... Bet ya didn't think of that..."  
So he lets his magic unfurl around him, already relishing in the bright warmth, when a jolt of raging hot electricity runs through his body, making him seize and cry out in agony.  
It's over as soon as it's began- the pain fades and with it every last ounce of magic energy Sting had left. A tiny spark lingers in his palm for a moment, so small it might have also been one of the stars dancing in front of his eyes, then it fizzles and is gone.  
Suddenly Jiemma's voice roars through the room "What do you take me for? An idiot? Did you really think I'd let you sit that one out by lightening up the room? You damn, conceited brat, let's see how you like this."  
The air is changing out of nowhere. As if someone had infused it with lead, it's too thick and heavy to breathe, it hurts; with every breath a little more, and a weight settles crushingly on Sting's chest.  
He feels hands grappling at his neck, slowly fastening their grip, until the dense air won't fit into his wind pipe anymore and his whole body starts burning. He is still dizzy and faint from the deprivation of magic, thus the only thing he can do to save himself is to reach weakly for the hands on his neck- just to have his fingers grasp at nothing but thin air. Still, the pressure increases and Sting looses all feeling in his body, brain shutting down, thoughts zooming in on one thing: terror. Pure, mind-eating terror.  
But before his consciousness wanes, a last dreamlike image passes his unseeing eyes.  
Black strands, ruby gaze. Home.  
After that Sting is swallowed by merciful oblivion.

When he comes to the air has thankfully gone back to being breathable again, and he gasps and wheezes until sweet oxygen floods his brain and the haze in his mind is clearing. His limbs come back to life in an agonizing fit of pins and needles that seems to drag on forever, but eventually this, too, subsides and he is once again, left with nothing more than his heartbeat thundering in his ears.  
That is- until he notices something crawling around in the shadows. Something nameless and horrifying, if the sounds were anything to go by. A damp, ragged breath, a disgusting scraping and slithering, as if an oversized, grimy maggot was creeping around, drawing closer.  
Sting tries to scurry away from the sound, but suddenly he can hear a second one right behind him, and another one somewhere to his left and all at once they're everywhere.  
Moments later he finds himself surrounded by unseen, unfathomable things; his magic is gone and his body is still sluggish and stiff from lying on the cold hard ground for god knows how long.  
A never known helplessness crushes down on him and keeps him frozen in place by an unyielding force.  
But when the first monster touches his hand, it's skin cold, slime-covered and foul he bats is away with all the strength he can muster. The thing is thrown back a few feet, but it doesn't seem wounded and wriggles right back towards the boy.  
Sting knows he can't put up much of a fight, but he still tries, as more and more of the maggot-things start brushing past his body.  
His resistance lasts about thirty seconds.  
Somehow the slime seems to numb his muscles and soon enough he can't do anything else but powerlessly endure them crawling all over his body, mouth opened in a silent scream.  
The things cover nearly every inch of his form, one even manages to wriggle its way underneath his shirt, rolling around lazily as if basking in the warmth of his flesh.

He feels the urge to vomit building up in his stomach, gag after gag rising in his throat with every jerking move the slick heaps of dead flesh leave etched into his memory. But right before his stomach spills its contents, the haunting is gone.  
The life returns to his trembling limbs and after a while the dry heaving lets up as well.  
Sting sits shell-shocked and quivering, tears running down his cheeks, and he keeps rocking back and forth, as his hands fumble feverishly at his chest, his face, everywhere he'd felt the maggots only moments ago.  
But he doesn't find any traces of slime what so ever. The only reminiscence of the nightmare is the need to scrub off the grime and the nauseating feeling of somehow being violated.  
He doesn't even notice, he's started biting his nails until he tastes blood.


	2. A spark, that blooms in darkness

The silence is gnawing at his ear drums with greedy fangs. In his secluded bubble of eternal midnight, where all sound is muted and the darkness presses solidly against his eyeballs, Sting almost feels afloat.  
The concept of time is slowly lost to him, for his pulse has become far too unsteady to help him measure the minutes and hours of his confinement. His limbs feel numb with cold and exhaustion, even lack the energy to keep on trembling, allowing the chill to seep into his body.  
His consciousness has retreated far into his mind, searching for some place warm and bright, where he could see the open sky and drink in the sunlight.  
A place where his hand would find another one whenever reaching out, and the sensation of a familiar heartbeat close to him, that never failed to calm his nerves.  
But whenever his imagination nearly manages to conjure the feeling of safety, serenity, and all those things belonging to carefree days spent in a brighter past; he'd be pulled back by a shiver coursing through his body, or a drip-dropping splash of water falling from the ceiling.  
Back to the crushing embrace of darkness and the foul stench of dead flesh ingrained into his nose.  
The memory might have brought tears to his eyes all over again, but he seems to have spent them all, so only a dry burning remains as he stares blankly into the vast space.  
There is nothing here to keep his thoughts occupied, so they're ceaselessly circling around the sickening sensation of cold, mindless creatures wandering lecherously over his skin.  
He's trapped in a downward spiral that just won't stop draining his sanity, leaving him to the nauseating aftermath of an adrenaline-shock with his nerves buzzing and pulse racing.  
So, even though his body demands rest, exhaustion turning every muscle into lead, sleep has never been farther away than at this very moment.  
The only thing he can do is curl into a tight little ball and wait. To be released from this nightmare or pass out from hypothermia and distress. Which ever comes first; he doesn't really care any more.

All of a sudden his head snaps up.  
An icy draft, that hadn't been there before, had just wafted through his hair, causing shivers to run down his spine. Something seems to be stirring in the shadows, Sting can almost feel them swirling and churning, as they give way to a solid form.  
Something's in here with him and the mere realization has the boy frozen in fear.  
'No, not again... Please, dear god, don't... just don't do this to me again...'  
He pleads to any deity that might be listening, but not a single word passes his lips, as panic fastens its hold on his body.  
Instead Sting goes perfectly still; limbs petrified and breathing strained, he only stares into the darkness with blind eyes and listens.  
The sound of footsteps identifies the intruder as a human being, but that does nothing to ease Sting's urge to lash out at the thing and shout his lungs out, as it draws closer until it's right next to him.  
He already feels a scream building in his throat, a hot, scraping sensation, like swallowing a shard of glass, when a hand suddenly flies out to cover his mouth, the fingers as small and soft as his, and the grip surprisingly gentle.  
He could bite them if he tried, maybe even draw blood... The thought sends a jolt of fear driven excitement through his bones.  
But before panic could get the better of him, a pair of lips grazes his temple, tiny puffs of air tickling his ear, as a familiar voice breathes a soft, low whisper against his brow.  
"Shh, it's just me. It's okay, it's okay." Sting almost sobs, as realization dawns upon him, dispelling the frost from his limbs and leaving him boneless and heavy.  
"I'm gonna take my hand away now, but you gotta promise, not to scream, you hear me?" Sting gives an eager nod, a never known relief flooding his body as the calming presence of his friend washes over his quivering form, efficiently erasing the tremors.  
"Rogue!" He croaks, trying very hard to keep his voice from cracking. "What are you doing here? How did you get in here?"  
He senses movement, measured and cautiously and in the next second Rogue drops down right beside him, hands feeling around, until they find Sting's. The violent flinch that follows the rather familiar touch more than startles him, but as he is about to withdraw, Sting quickly catches his retreating wrist and laces their fingers together on his own accord.  
His skin is icy, clam and just won't stop twitching, so Rogue inches a little closer and eases his arm around the hunched shoulders, securely wrapping Sting up in his cape.  
"C'mer, you're freezing, man!" he coaxes and soon enough Sting all but crumbles into the patiently waiting arms, head shyly coming to rest in the crook of Rogue's neck.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer rests his cheek lightly against the blond crown and wills the life back into stiff, numb limbs by rubbing his hands fiercely over the other boy's arms.  
"You weren't in our room when I got back from training." He states simply after some moments of evaluating the whole situation. Sting hums a little sound of approval, but otherwise stays quiet, what cues Rogue to continue.  
"I thought you hadn't returned from the mission yet, but then I saw Jiemma practically pounding Dobengal into the dirt- He was so fucking angry, I... " He trails off, shaking his head in silence, but after a soft little nudge from Sting's elbow, keeps on talking. His voice suddenly sounds much softer, as compassion worms it's way into his speech.  
"I had no idea, where to look for you! And I thought: What if he'd expelled you from the guild? What if he hurt you so bad, that..."  
Once again Rogue can't finish the sentence, but the way his fingers suddenly dig into Sting's shoulder, protectively and oh-so-warm, is more than enough to fill in the blank.  
"I tried following your scent, but it was everywhere and nowhere at the same time and I ended up running down the same hallways time and again, before I overheard Minerva asking about your mission. And Jiemma told her, that he'd thrown you into the pit... and..."  
Rogue takes a staggering breath and fastens his hold on Sting a little more, before adding: "His voice gave me the creeps... It was... just so... I don't even know how to describe it... It was dripping with scorn and the way he laughed, kinda told me, that he had something horrible in store for ya... I came here as fast as I could, but... but..."  
Another deep breath as he prepares for the inevitable, obvious question.  
"I'm too late, ain't I? Something's already happened, right?"  
There is such an amount of concern laced into Rogue's voice, that it's almost impossible to bear, and Sting cannot bring himself to burden him even further by revealing what took place behind these walls.  
Not when the blackness is only being warded off by the thin layer of fabric that is Rogue's mantle.  
The memory is yet too fresh, the wounds it ripped still bleeding and he feels sullied, tainted, so he couldn't stand the idea, of his friend knowing just how pathetic his defences had been, how his hands had trembled with fear.  
How, in the end he just let those horrible things happen, without much of a fight.

That's why he forces himself to shake his head and even contorts his face in something akin to an achingly broken smile, while he hopes desperately, that his voice wouldn't betray his true emotions right now.  
"Nah, I've just been locked up in here for quite a while now and... you know, I've never liked the darkness very much." If his stomach hadn't started convulsing with nausea, Sting might have even been proud of how normal and steady his voice came out, but like this, it takes all the willpower he's got, not to falter and throw up.  
"Dude, that's like - the biggest understatement I've ever heard of, you know? You "Don't like the darkness very much?" " Rogue's tone is light, maybe even a bit mocking, but there's affection and sympathy woven tightly into his words, as he adds:  
"You don't have to pretend, that you're not scared for me. We've been friends since forever and I had to comfort you so many times... I just know this is freaking you out. I can feel that you're shaking, you know?"  
"Sh-shut-t up. 'm ju-just c-cold." As if to prove a point, Sting's teeth all of a sudden start clattering violently with every word, so Rogue wraps his coat a little tighter around the quivering body next to him and curses under his breath.  
"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that." He nudges the White Dragon Slayer gently, but stalls in his tracks, as the action elicits an outcry of pain.  
"He's beaten you up again, didn't he?" Rogue's voice suddenly comes as a vicious growl, and even though Sting can't see it, he knows that those warm red eyes are now ablaze with fury.  
"One day Imma kill this bastard, I swear!" It's Sting's time now, to cover the other's mouth hastily.  
"Shh, are you insane? He might hear you! Don't you think he'd be able to listen to what's going on in here, somehow? What if..."  
As if to prove Sting right, Jiemma's voice is suddenly thundering throughout the whole guild hall, filling the air with a malign, dreadful static.  
" ROGUE!"  
"Oh no!", Sting whispers, throat tight with fear. The Shadow Dragon Slayer only sets his jaw in determination, but otherwise doesn't even flinch.  
"ROGUE!"  
"Go!" Sting urges his friend, even though every fibre of his being wants him to stay, wants to keep his warmth, his comforting presence selfishly by his side.  
"No way! I'm not leaving you behind in here. I don't care..."  
"CHENEY! GET YOUR SORRY ASS HERE RIGHT NOW! THERE'S WORK FOR YOU! CHENEY!"  
"Please!" Sting is pleading with him now, despair spreading through his guts.  
"I'll be fine, I promise. I... I can do this. But..."  
His voice is dangerously close to breaking and he has to force it back into obedience, the lie weighing heavy on his mind, before he continues.  
"But... please don't make me worry about you, too. This is what I couldn't do right now. I might endure the darkness, but only if I know, that when this is over, you'll be waiting for me back in our room. And then we'll start reading the book I got us in town, today. Just..."  
Now his breath hitches and almost comes as a sob, but Rogue seems to understand him nevertheless, for he actually draws back, prepared to get to his feet.

As soon as his arms fall away from Sting's shoulders, his body already misses the soothing feeling of heat, the distant rhythm of Rogue's pulse and his warm breath on his hair.  
"ROGUE! GET THE FUCK HERE! RIGHT NOW OR YOU'RE GONNA REGRET HAVING EVEN BEEN BORN!"  
He is bracing himself for the inevitable harsh, cold silence that'll be swallowing him up once again any second now; but to his surprise, the other one leans back in, hands capturing Sting's once more, as he whispers:  
"All right. I'll go. But don't you worry, I'll be back for you, as soon as possible. Wait for me, you hear me?" He rests his forehead ardently against Sting's before continuing  
"Be brave! Just for a little longer! "  
And Sting, completely dumbfounded by the tender gesture, just squeezes those warm hands and breathes: "I will. Please be safe!" He feels the nod against his brow and then a soft swirl of shadows tousles his hair and their hands slide apart. Rogue is gone, leaving behind nothing but his earthen scent and rapidly cooling darkness.  
Sting's facade caves and crumbles.


	3. Am Abend, wenn die Glocken Frieden läute

The warm atmosphere of the evening is already succumbing to the first nightly chills, a gentle breeze rustling through the branches outside of the windows, and Rogue's relentless pacing is carving a pattern of worry and restlessness into the thick carpet of their bedroom.  
Hours have passed since he had been forced to leave Sting behind in this black pit of utter despair and Jiemma had done a disgustingly good job in keeping him from returning to the blonde's side ever since.

Though he had left Sting's prison in a hurry, slipping through the countless shadows darkening their guild in mere seconds, a rough, oversized hand had sent him flying into a table more than ten feet away, as soon as he'd skidded to a shaky halt in the main hall.  
With blood trickling down his temple and white noise buzzing hazily in his ears, he couldn't help but stumble right into the Master when trying to get back up, what earned him another harsh slap across his face.  
This time the lumpish, tawdry golden rings crimping the fleshy fingers managed to draw blood in three different spots, forcing a small gasp of pain from cracked lips.  
"The next time I call for you, you get your scrawny ass here right away, did I make myself clear?"  
Biting down the vile choke of anger, Rogue only ground out a toneless "Yes, Sir." and kept his eyes glued to the floor.  
Calloused fingers suddenly clutched his chin with a bruising vice-grip and bent his head up with bone crushing force, lifting the boy off his feet with ease.  
"Look at me, when you're being talked to! You're a stubborn little punk, but I'll beat some manners into you! Now, I'mma show you your place!"  
Without further ado Rogue got smashed to the ground, Jiemma's feet hovering threateningly over his neck.  
"There! That's much better. Do you understand now? You are but vermin at my feet, that I gave the merciful opportunity to show their value. Do not get conceited! You may be a Dragon Slayer, but to me you're but a fledgling and I might crush you whenever I see fit. Now, quit crawling around like some toddler, get up! I have some errands for you.  
Here's a list of stuff, I need to have delivered, and some goods from a store in Magnolia. You better waste no time, getting these things done."

The errands in question were nothing but barely concealed spite, taunting him to refuse and insist on staying, but Rogue had known all along, that whatever resistance he offered would have been dealt to Sting tenfold, thus he resigned himself to silent, albeit reluctant compliance.  
Thus he held his head high and accepted the order without so much as even a flinch.  
Jiemma looked at him in bewilderment and for a second Rogue could have sworn there was something akin to disappointment flashing through the cold, starring eyes.  
But then a sly expression spread on the distorted, harsh face, causing an ominous feeling of dread to slither down his guts.  
The Shadow Dragon Slayer clenched his jaw tightly, ready to bite down hard on the soft flesh of his tongue, should the beating continue.  
This man might force him into obedience and frighten him into submittal, but he wouldn't have the satisfaction of eliciting even the smallest noise from his throat. He might beat his flesh, but this was his pride, his dignity and this brute of a man wouldn't defile it.  
The Master, however, had seemingly lost his interest in Rogue; already sauntering back towards his private rooms, he only looked back at the boy still crouched down in front of his humongous chair.  
"What are you waiting for? Shouldn't you get moving? You wouldn't wanna stay out too long, now, would you?"  
His voice had been thick and dripping with taunt, the vile edge of a threat barely concealed by a mocking sweetness that sounded nauseatingly wrong and alien coming from this very person.  
Rogue shivered violently, a foreboding of oncoming mischief having his blood run cold.

After that he had spent the better part of the afternoon darting all across town, knowing perfectly well, that Jiemma had pulled those errands right out of his ass just to have him out of the guild and Sting all alone and at his complete mercy.

When he returned after what felt like weeks later, bones heavy and bruised from the previous beating, Minerva greeted him right at the door steps with a grin full of mockery and nails glinting like poison-dipped daggers in the late afternoon light.  
"Oh, what have we here?" She sing-sung. "Well, aren't you a fast delivery boy, cutie? Why don't I give you a nice little treat for your good work?"  
She closed the distance with languid steps, hips swinging ostentatiously, and placed a single wiggling finger on Rogue's chest; her long, pointy nail a constant reminder that she was, indeed a tigress merely playing with her prey.  
But tonight the prey in question wasn't willing to let himself get played and mocked, so Rogue stared her down icily, slapped her hand away and, with frustration and sorrow harshening his whole demeanour, pushed past her roughly without so much as a second glance.  
A grave mistake, as he should have know, but the need to return to Sting's side was getting unbearable and made him reckless.  
"This is not how you should treat a Lady, my dearest Rogue!" The false sweetness in her voice was nearly as sharp and venomous as the scarcely hidden snarl that cut through the air. Belatedly he realized, that his back was completely open and unguarded, but it didn't stop him from rushing on towards their room, the desperate hope of finding the White Dragon Slayer there spurning him into overdrive.  
Suddenly his feet wouldn't move, the pull of gravity so strong, that his whole body got dragged flush to the ground by an unyielding force.  
Minerva drew closer, her slit dress riding up her thighs almost obscenely, and placed a foot casually on top of Rogue's head; the sharp-edged metal heel digging painfully and cold into his temple.  
"Father was right! You really need to be taught some manners!" Her voice came out as nothing but a cruel cursing, insufficiently covered in honey.  
"So be grateful, for you'll receive the privilege of a special lesson from no one else but me myself. I might have even let you dash to your darling Sting's rescue in due time, if you had shown even the tiniest effort so please me. Alas, since you decided to spite me like that..."  
She put some weight onto the foot still pinning Rogue to the ground, and started twisting her heel until it dig into the soft skin, leaving a gush of blood spilling down a pale cheek at removal.  
"Maybe next time you'll think twice about rejecting my advances. Be gone!"  
A sharp pang rang throughout the hallway and the ground devoured him greedily.

When Rogue finally comes to, he finds himself face down on the floor of their bedroom, with only a vague memory of being sucked into a chaotic void, where inhumane sounds pierced his ears, eating away at his mind, while his nerves seemed to be on fire. The Shadow Dragon Slayer has no idea how long it had taken for him to lose consciousness, it might have been hours or mere moments, and even now, God knows how much later, his whole body aches and throbs.  
His muscles screech at him in protest when he tries to sit up and a nauseating dizziness tells him that his magic power had been drained completely.  
Truly, Minerva's Territory was a dreadful spell and to be reckoned with.

So he waits for a little longer to regain his bearing and eventually manages to hoist himself up.  
A glance at the darkening sky outside indicates, that fortunately he hadn't been out cold for quite as long as he'd dreaded, but the fact that Sting is still not back in here makes his stomach drop anxiously.  
"Rogue? A.. Are you okay?" A small voice pipes up from behind him and a second later a blur of pink and green comes flying right into his chest. "Frosch was so worried! You didn't move and... and... We thought you were dead!" His precious little Exceed is snuggling into his lap, nuzzling his belly like crazy, while she spills ugly, noisy tears.  
"I told you, it would take a whole lot more than some bruises to do someone as strong as Sting or Rogue in!" Lektor's words sound as boasting as ever, but there is relief written all over his face, showing that he, too, had been more than concerned about the Shadow Dragon Slayer's well being.  
"Hey, Rogue, where's Sting? Hasn't he been with you? I haven't seen him all day!"  
For a second Rogue considers making up some kind of excuse to spare their exceeds the nasty truth, but then he reconsiders and tells the whole story. These cats were their friends, they didn't deserve being lied to, even if it was in good intent.  
After he finishes, the three of them sit in brooding silence, each lost in their own bubble of concern, until Rogue's patience runs thin and he snaps.  
"That's it! I'm not gonna sit here any longer, doing nothing but wait. I'll go get him right now. This has gone on for long enough, Sting was already freaked out hours ago, who knows how he's holding up. And it's cold as shit in there, I bet he's half frozen by now." He jumps to his feet, already summoning what meagre amount of magic he managed to accumulate, when Frosch calls out to him. "Rogue! You mustn't go! Please, they'll be back any minute now!"  
Taken aback, the Shadow Dragon Slayer refrains from sliding into the shadows and turns to his exceed in bewilderment.  
"Who is coming back? What do you mean, Frosch?"  
The little critter only shakes her head as tears well up in her eyes, so Lektor takes it upon himself to explain the situation.  
"Rufus and Orga! They've been checking the room every fifteen minutes, making sure that you didn't run off. They said, if you left, they would tell the master about the two of us. We're sorry, Rogue."  
He, too, hangs his head for a moment, but then he swallows hard and looks back up.  
Although there is fierce determination glittering in his eyes, his voice is still shaky and breaking with the desperate effort to sound brave, when he adds:  
"Hey, Rogue, please don't worry about us! Just go and get Sting! We're going to be fine, I promise! Sting is more important right now! He might be injured, and I guess he's really scared all alone in the dark. I know I would be, and I'd wish someone would come for me. So, please! Bring Sting back to us, I'm sure the Master won't treat us this hard."  
"Yeah, Fro thinks so, too!"  
Rogue's face falters and pales considerably, while anger rushes through his veins in rash, crushing waves.  
Though he looks at the cats with affection and pride lightening his eyes, another part of his mind breathes fire and brimstone at those bastards, that forced him to choose between Sting and their exceeds.  
In the end he groans wearily and collapses next to his bed, head buried in his arms and heart heavy as he admits defeat.  
He couldn't possibly expose Lektor and Frosch to the threat of being mauled by a furious Jiemma, since it would be their undoing.  
The little exceeds couldn't fight for themselves, and as much as it pains him, he's well aware, that right now they're in a much greater need of his protection than Sting, terrified and shaken though he may be.  
So he gathers the cats close, taking just as much comfort from their furry warmth as he is trying to offer, and swallows the bitterness sharpening his voice.  
"Naa, Sting would kill me, if I let anything happen to you. Besides, didn't you always say, he was the strongest Dragon Slayer in Fiore? Have some faith in him, I'm sure he'll soldier through this. Let's wait for him together, shall we?" 'And pick up the pieces later on', he adds mentally, but for the sake of the exceeds he puts up a tough facade and hides his anxiousness behind the brightest smile he can offer right now.

And thus they wait in a tension-brimming silence, as the sun steadily descends, bleeding a scarlet ominous red onto the walls, until the night sky lowers its velvet veil over the land.  
The scarce attempts at conversation die down after two or three sentences, and the helplessness settles heavy in Rogue's throat, as he paces their room for the umpteenth time.  
Though his body trembles in a state of constant alertness he nearly jumps out of his skin when the humongous, unsightly grandfather-clock downstairs announces the tenth hour with foreboding, eery tolls.  
The air reverberates with gloom, sending chills up and down his spine, but the sound of footsteps has his head snap up in excitement.  
Even though unsteady and hesitant, contorted by a serious limp the Shadow Dragon Slayer would recognize this rhythm anywhere.  
The paces stop right in front of their room, where his keen ears detect the sound of an exhausted sigh, before the doorknob starts to turn.  
Rogue dashes over to the threshold, relief, gratitude and yearning having his knees feeling faint, and finally, finally finds himself face to face with Sting.

He is almost about to pull his friend into his arms tightly, hands already reaching for sagging shoulders, when Sting flinches back, with his eyes wide and staring.  
It takes Rogue a moment to overcome his puzzlement and another one for him to take in the other boy's appearance.  
Then fury pools deep inside his chest, burning and raging, ready to lash out at Jiemma, their guild mates, god and the whole world.  
Anyone who was responsible for those wounds or turned a blind eye when it happened. But mostly himself. For not taking the beating. For complying once again with Jiemma's cruel ways... Maybe, if he could have just stomached the punishment... 'No! This is not the time for self-pity! Get it together!' He scolds himself. 'There are more pressing matters at hand!'  
And it couldn't be more accurate than that.  
Sting's face is littered with small cuts, some of them still bleeding faintly, a dark bruise blooms around his left eye, highlighting the bright azure in an obscenely beautiful way, and his clothes are grimy, bloodstained and ragged.  
But the most dreadful sight are the angry marks and swellings all over his neck that are already starting to turn black.  
Marks, that, as Rogue shockingly realizes, look nauseatingly like brutish, meaty hands.  
"Sting... What... What the hell..." He finds that voice as well as reason avoids his shell-shocked form, as he stares at his best friend in anguish, mind reeling, finding neither head nor tails.  
But just standing there, gaping and caving to shock really wasn't an option now, so he tries again.  
"Sting... We gotta take care of these wounds! Come here, I... I'll get some hot water and... shit, where's the first aid kit? Ahh, fuck dammit... I... Why didn't I think of this sooner?"  
"Don't worry. I can do it on my own." It's the first time the White Dragon Slayer speaks and his small voice sounds alien, too hoarse and dull, listlessly uttered words without so much as an ounce of life to them.  
"But..." Rogue is utterly dumbfounded, can't place the cool, withdrawn demeanour, and the feeling of shiftlessness in his guts increases tenfold.  
"I'm gonna take a shower..." With that Sting staggers past him, swaying dangerously on wobbly knees and Rogue reaches out by instinct, trying to prevent his obviously faint friend from crumbling to the ground, but once again, the other boy shies away from the touch and makes for the bathroom in apparent haste.  
When he slams the door shut, the clicking of the lock rings like a gun shot in the sensitive ears of the Shadow Dragon Slayer, and he couldn't feel worse if Sting had just punched his stomach.  
In all the years they'd known each other neither of them had ever felt the need for a door lock. They are close enough to one another, that nudity means nothing to them and respect each other enough not to violate their respective privacy. All in all either of them has complete faith in the other- or at least that's how things had been in the morning.  
'He's just hurt and touching might aggravate his injuries...' Rogue tries to tell himself with little success.  
'And who knows what Jiemma did to him... Maybe a nice hot shower will make him snap out of this...'

The water seems to be running for ages, steam is already starting to curl around the bathroom door, but Sting is still scrubbing his body. Rogue can hear the restless rubbing of a harsh brush on sore skin, and nearly drowned by the gushing of water, every now and then a choked sob, followed by muttered words, too soft for even his ears to catch.  
Once again he's doomed to idle waiting and it's grinding on his nerves with razor-sharp incisions.  
Why wouldn't Sting let him treat his injuries? That's how it was supposed to be...  
Why would Sting deny himself the comfort of warm fingers easing his suffering?  
He'd always been fond of those intimate, quiet moments made up from small caresses and gentle treatment.  
The bathroom door opens and reveals Sting, almost hidden behind shrouds of mist, as he limps towards his bed with unsteady steps.  
He has cleaned up the biggest part of his wounds and wrapped the most dire ones up in bandages, but his face is still swollen and raw and the thin scarf slung around his neck doesn't manage to cover the ugly bruises completely.  
Worst of all, his eyes are still hollow and empty and his trembling hands are clenched into the hems of his shirt.  
Rogue looks him over with soft, compassionate eyes, but his friend avoids his gaze and drops down onto the mattress, back facing the Shadow Dragon Slayer.  
"Hey, Sting... are you... no, of course not, what a silly question." Rogue catches himself before he can ask something this stupid. Sting was very obviously a far cry from "all right", but he just can't find his words, not now... not when his whole world seems to be crumbling beneath his feet.  
And still, the White Dragon Slayer answers:  
"Yeah... I'm fine. Sorry, but I'm going to sleep."  
His voice is still flat and toneless, barely a whisper in the cold air drifting through the open window. Suddenly something crosses Rogue's mind, something Sting had mentioned himself a lifetime ago.  
"Hey, what about the book you got today? Don't you wanna start reading?"  
He sincerely hopes that the promise of snuggling up nice and warm under a shared blanket, all the while losing themselves in the next volume of their favourite adventure novel series might coax the blonde out of his shell.  
But his shy optimism is shattered, when Sting buries himself under a heap of blankets and mumbles:  
"You can read it, if you wanna. It's in my back. I just wanna sleep."  
After that he falls silent and Rogue is all alone with his thoughts and fears.  
Luckily their exceeds had fallen asleep some time ago, so they didn't bear witness to this unpleasant, unsettling reunion, that had been nothing like he had imagined.  
Usually Sting would always seek comfort in closeness, rapidly calming down, when Rogue's hands were combing through his hair or caressing his back.  
Whenever the Holy Dragon Slayer got seriously frightened, he'd curl up pressed flush against his friend, leaning into each and every touch that was oh-so-willingly given.  
And Rogue would enjoy those calm moments between warm sheets, when their bodies just acted on their own accord and time seemed to still, as either of them took in all the tiny things that made up his other part.  
Heartbeats, breathing, smell- even the structure of hair and skin forever engraved in their memory.  
So why was it now, that Sting rejected him this vehemently?  
Just what did this bastard do to him, to actually make him frightened of his best friend?  
Thousands of questions are buzzing through his head, which is already pounding and spinning, but can't find rest whatsoever.  
He stares at the ceiling for the longest time, trying to find answers hidden between the cracks and stains on the cold, dreary stones; to no avail, however.  
After a while he turns off the light and whispers a soft, fond  
"Goodnight, Sting..." into the darkness.  
But even though the still thundering pulse and the somewhat ragged breathing tell him that the other boy is very much awake, he doesn't receive an answer.


	4. Those who are tainted

**... and those who got flayed**

The room seems to be crushing him. Though he can neither see nor feel anything, Sting is positive, that the walls are creeping in on him, inching closer and closer with each passing minute.  
Wasn't the air already getting stifling?  
An undefined, meaningless amount of time earlier the realisation would have had him freak out in plain terror, but now, with his limbs unresponsive and lifeless with cold, mind hazy and barely in touch any longer, he can't bring himself to care.  
The frost is nestled in the innermost core of his bones by now, churning and aching, as if his body was made up of brittle timber cracking in the deep of winter, and slowly he starts questioning, if he had ever been warm before in his life.  
In the impenetrable darkness each rustling of straw or drafting of air could mean an approaching thread and from time to time something is still slithering through the remote corners of the room. Whenever the slick, sickening noise appears, Sting finds himself dry-heaving in an instant, as tears stain his cheeks and a cold sweat doubles the chills coursing through his teeth-clattering form.  
But every time he thinks he's hit rock bottom, his sensible nose would catch a reminiscence of the familiar earthen scent- like falling leaves, cedar, incense and bonfire-heat- and only then would he remember what warmth felt like, security and trust.  
He would think of Lektor then, his chestnut-coloured fur tickling his neck, as his exceed perched on his shoulder, of Frosch's ridiculously soft frog-suit, when he pet her head idly and of Rogue- determined and caring- with his hands always eager to give whatever it was that Sting needed, be it comfort, first aid or a brother-in-arms in battle.  
Countless times he imagines finally coming back to their room. Frosch would cry like the sweet little darling that she was and cling to his leg, until he'd pick her up and tickle her ears, Lektor's chest would swell with pride and he'd parade around, telling him over and over again, that he'd always known, Sting would manage just fine, because he was just that awesome. And Rogue... Rogue would drag him to the bathroom and patch up his injuries with gentle hands and soft, sad eyes.  
After that the four of them would huddle together closely on one of the two beds, as they shared a novel or listened to either of the boys reading aloud. They'd fall asleep like this, Sting and Rogue curled around each other, heads resting against one another, hands only a hairs width apart, with the cats snoring soundly between the crescent moons of their sleeping forms. And when they wake, their hands would most likely be entwined, but neither would draw away or comment on it for the longest time, save for the faint blush dusting their cheeks.  
The thought gives Sting some hope, some strength to endure this nightmare for another hour, but his reserves are dwindling.  
Just for how long...

His thoughts stall, as a sound that hadn't been there a minute ago, rings through the nothingness beyond his vision and elicits a dull pressure of unease behind his unseeing eyes.  
Initially it's only scurrying noises of something heavy moving about in the blackness, but then he detects the sound of breaths and another heartbeat, that is unmistakeably human.  
A wild, scourging hope fills his heart, easing the violent shivers wrecking his bones and bringing about a feeling of warm relief spreading throughout his whole body.  
"Rogue?" He whispers into the void around him with bated breath, fingers crossed in anticipation, as he already pictures the feeling of another body close to him, heat willingly shared, comfort unconditionally given.  
The rapidly nearing footsteps, however, are far too heavy and aggressive to ever belong to the Shadow Dragon Slayer, and thunder through the air with ill-meaning force. By now the formerly low breaths have taken on an enraged and animus nature, that has Sting shrinking into himself almost by instinct.  
"Not quite!" A cruel voice answers, causing the blood to rush deafeningly through the Dragon Slayer's ears as sheer terror takes a hold of him upon recognition.  
So the Master had finally come back to pick up where he left off...

"Calling out for our little friend are we? Did you honestly think, I'd let him come back in here?"  
Sting gasps at the scornful words- so Jiemma did notice.  
Before he can even start wondering about Rogue's fate, however, the Master continues:  
"What? If you weren't aware that I could watch the pathetic behaviour you've displayed in here, you're even dumber than I thought. Yes, Sting, I saw you clinging to Rogue like the fucking wimp that you are and it was the most disgusting thing I had to witness in quite a while."  
A massive boot comes flying right into his midriff, hurling him against the wall with a sickening crunch.  
Jiemma walks over to his crumbling form and grabs Sting's neck in an iron grip, before he hoicks him up forcefully.  
The beefy fingers fasten their hold on the tender throat; nails, rings and calluses imprinting themselves into the soft, tanned skin, when he gets slammed into the wall behind him casually. His head collides painfully with the damp, greasy bricks and for a moment the world around him vanishes behind a curtain of colourful dots and stars, but Jiemma shakes him harshly and he is pulled back from the brink of unconsciousness.  
"Why is it, that a fucking Dragon Slayer turns out to be such a pitiful weakling? Just look at you! You're nearly soiling yourself!..." Their Master rages on, with spit flying from his lips and landing all over the boy's face, but Sting can't make out the words any longer.  
He is still suspended by nothing but the brutish hand clamped around his neck, feet dangling uselessly in mid-air, and Jiemma is slamming him into the wall with each syllable, so after a short time there is nothing but static buzzing in his ears. His eyes are starting to roll back into his head, body already going limp, when the beating comes to a halt and the grip around his windpipe loosens ever so slightly, allowing some air to enter his lungs.  
The white noise dies down gradually, enabling Sting to take in the heavy, tension-filled silence hanging over the room.  
"Pathetic. Unless sweet Rogue holds your hand you really can't accomplish anything, can you?"  
Jiemma's voice has lowered to a poisonous whisper and suddenly the blonde wished he was yelling again.  
"Is that the reason, why the two of you are always all over one another? Or is there something else?  
This constant touching... It's not normal..."

Sting isn't sure, if he can follow his Master's trail of thought.  
True, he and Rogue were awfully touchy at times, but he had never deemed it unusual.  
They had met at an early age, where children still crave the comfort and affection of their parents, but since both of them were orphaned – burdened with crippling guilt and loneliness – they sought solace in each other.  
"Do you know what I call guys who can't keep their hands off of other guys?  
Fags! Repulsive, dirty fags!  
And if there is one thing I can tolerate even less in my guild than weaklings it's cocksucking little faggots!"  
Jiemma's voice is contorted with hatred and malice, making Sting shiver in dread, while his mind is reeling. He'd never thought about Rogue like that, is still too young to have even questioned and pondered his interests; all he knows is that Rogue's presence feels calming, his gentle hands always keeping him grounded and that he in return likes the feel of the other's hair beneath his fingers and the way their bodies curled perfectly around each other.  
But this is obviously nothing he can tell their Master now, who's nails are drawing blood close to his pulse line as lifts the boy higher.  
With a start Sting realizes, that the bearded, vicious face is only inches away from his own now, snorting breaths already grazing his skin and if he could see even the slightest bit, he'd find the deadhearted eyes staring right into his soul.  
"And do you know, why I despise gay limp-dicks that much? It's because they find pleasure in something sick like this..."

All of a sudden grossly plump, moist lips force themselves onto Sting's, licking at the sensitive skin and biting down hard on his bottom-lip until he can taste copper.  
"...and this..." Jiemma's tone is completely different now, husky and thick, the words uttered with a certain urgency.  
His hand grabs Sting's crotch roughly all at once, clenching tightly around his private parts and causing an outcry of agony to rise in the Dragon Slayer's throat.  
But he never gets the chance to scream, for as soon as he opens his mouth a vile tongue is shoved harshly past his lips, deep enough to have him gag and choke in torment.  
Their Master's breath tastes rancid and foul as he moans against Sting, all the while his hand won't refrain from pawing his dick and rear.  
He tries kicking Jiemma, but his legs can barely move and the attempt causes his tormentor to clench his fist tightly around the throbbing testes, and here Sting really passes out for a second.

He is jerked back into awareness, however, by a pair of hands shaking him by the shoulders, voice piercing his ears excruciatingly: "Wake up! Snap out of it, Sting!"  
The onslaught of violent kisses has ended, so Sting does the only thing his shell-shocked mind allows him to do – he screams, and screams and screams.  
"What's the matter, Sting? Did I hurt you or something?" Was the Master really mocking him right now?  
The tainting hands are still on his shoulders, still keeping him restrained and he claws at them, tries to pry them off, but they only fasten their hold, confining him between the slick wall and the heaving chest in front of his unseeing eyes.  
"Sting! Stop struggling, or I might really cause you pain! Do you hear me?!"  
He is now kicking like mad, wriggling and writhing in a frenzy to free himself, but the hands are still there, still clasping his shoulders and it seems as if they're burning his skin with acid.  
"Get your goddamn filthy hands off me! It's disgusting, you're disgusting... LET THE FUCK GO!"  
A sudden burst of purest light explodes around his wrestling form, followed by a shock-wave of raw magic energy that throws his violator off his feet and sends him flying into the opposite wall with a satisfyingly dolorous thud.  
Sting feels like sinking to the ground, but surprisingly already finds himself collapsed into a shivering heap of wobbly limbs.  
He's panting heavily, sobs wrecking his form without control as he allows the nauseating frenzy of relief to wash over him.  
A certain circumstance is nagging at the back of his mind, but his thoughts are a bloody mess and his heart is racing this bad, his stomach starts seizing, so he pays it no heed.  
Until there is an unusually soft, pitiful whimper of pain somewhere across the room.  
Something isn't right and suddenly Sting is very afraid of the light to return.  
Why would he have been able to fend of Master Jiemma all of a sudden?  
True, he had acted in a state of adrenaline-fueled mania, but his magic had been depleted earlier and his body had been weakened by hunger, pain and cold.  
Furthermore, the Master should have seen this attack coming for a mile, why didn't he defend himself?  
Another small, tantalizing groan disturbs the silence and finally Sting pries open his tightly clenched eyes-  
to find the soft golden glow of their bedside lamp illuminating what is unmistakably their dorm.  
He is pressed into a corner next to his completely rumpled bedsheets and on the other side of the room, struggling to keep himself propped up on his forearms, a thick trickle of blood leaking from an angry cut on his brow, is Rogue, all wide-eyed confusion and pain.


	5. My heartbeat,

**... trembling in the still of your hands**

Sting stares in utter petrification as heavy droplets of blood make their way across a pale, bruised temple before falling lazily onto the polished floor.

His frenzied mind is both screaming bloody murder and bustling with silence at the same time and the only coherent thought that is running around in circles is "Impossible!".

His brain refuses to process what went down in the past few seconds, as he cannot comprehend how he even got to their room in the first place. He had been down in the pit, alone with Jiemma's horrid touches, hadn't he?

So why- WHY is it that the attack so clearly aimed to rid himself of his torturer, ended up hurting trusty, innocent Rogue of all people?

Was this another trick played at his mind to erode his defences and fuck with his sanity- or had he already been pushed over the edge without even realizing it?

As he curls in on himself, eyes never leaving Rogue's frozen form - still unable to find his feet - hazy memories come flooding back in waves, as if someone had hit rewind on the turntable of time.

Now he remembers fighting hopelessly against a crushing weight pressing up against his rigid body, tearing at fingers seemingly determined to crush his throat and thrashing around to avoid the sensation of a rock-hard erection rubbing up against his thighs.

How he could ever delude himself into believing he'd managed to defy the overwhelmingly forceful death-grip Jiemma maintains on his comparatively fragile form, is beyond him.

Of course he had been far too weak to free and fight for himself and thus allowed the Master to have his ways with him.

After blacking out from the pain inflicted on his crotch, he'd come around a couple of minutes later, to the sordid feeling of vile breaths moaned into his face and hips grinding against his own crushingly.

With every harsh jerk he felt the disturbing hardness slide obscenely over his stomach and groin, Jiemma's movements staggering, body eagerly pressing closer in the pursuit of friction.

Throughout the assault, the slick, rough tongue never left Sting's lips, licking and sucking greedily, while saliva ran down his chin in hot, steady streams.

The hand that had been fumbling with his privates earlier, slid beneath his torn shirt and wandered lecherously over his chest, twisting his nipples painfully every once in a while.

As the panted groans grew louder, the thrusting got even more vulgar and erratic, until Jiemma let out a throaty moan and, with one last brute strike, sagged heavily against Sting's trembling body.

"There, did you like that, you damn little slut?" He ground out between ragged breaths, already straightening up again, his hand still keeping the boy suspended in mid-air.

"Let this be a fair warning!" He spat scornfully. "If I ever find the two of you all lovey-dovey and balls deep in your gay shit again, I'll make sure that dear little Rogue is going to take it... all the way...

Tomorrow you're gonna show me, that you've come to understand, that the darkness is nothing to be afraid of, or else I'll take you for another round!

Now get out of my sight, you fucking piece of shit. "

Without sparing Sting so much as another look, Jiemma tossed him onto the floor right in front of the door and walked past him with indifferent steps.

The White Dragon Slayer had spend a long time on the cold stones of the empty hallway, waiting for the shivers to subside and the life to return to his legs, until he finally picked himself off of the ground and made for his bedroom with swaying steps and unshed tears blurring his vision.

He remembers dully showering for what felt like hours, scrubbing feverishly at his skin, but the stains just wouldn't come off.

After that he draws a blank; logic, however, tells him that he must have fallen asleep at some point and his reeling mind, unable to deal with what had been done to him, had replayed the events in his dreams over and over again.

He'd probably been flailing and rolling around, eventually falling to the floor and of course Rogue had rushed to his side, trying desperately to rouse him from the torturous nightmare, unaware that his well-meaning touch would trigger this kind of reaction.

Sting feels like the floor just gave way beneath him as the realisation sinks in- not only had he lashed out at Rogue, he had also insulted him dreadfully, and now the regret weighs as heavily at his heart as the abominable memories of the past few hours.

He has to clamp his mouth shut quickly, for he isn't sure, if whatever seems to be rising in his throat is going to be another hoarse scream, hysterical laughter or the remaining contents of his stomach.

Probably everything at once...

How could he ever make this up again, without having to explain what exactly brought the sudden aversion of physical contact about?

Could he even make it up altogether?

Was this what Jiemma had intended all along?

To drive a wedge between the two of them, by traumatizing him so severely, that even someone as familiar and beloved as Rogue repulsed him?

Had their close relationship offended him to a degree, where he saw fit to resolve to abuse and torture only because he deemed comradeship and bonds weak?

If so, it had worked splendidly this far, for Rogue is finally staggering to his feet, probably to flee the room and the White Dragon Slayer can't even blame him.

He just hopes, that his friend will spare him harsh, hateful words and reproaches, for he doesn't know, if he could bear it right now, without bursting into tiny little shards and pieces.

Yet, to his surprise, Rogue doesn't leave but approaches him cautiously, hands raised in a placatory gesture, and crouches down in front of Sting, mindful of keeping a safe amount of space between the two of them.

The blood is still dripping from his forehead, underlining the fairness of his skin, but his eyes are tender and compassionate, as he notices the intense tremors wrecking the shrinking form.

Sting still doesn't dare to utter a single word, fearing that, if the silence stretching almost palpable between them is broken, so will be their friendship.

But then the Shadow Dragon Slayer whispers three little words and the blonde can't help but burst into pathetic sobs.

"I'm sorry, Sting!"

It's all that Sting needs to come undone right there, curled into a tight little ball in the corner of the room, head buried in his arms, as he cries like he had never done before.

"Sting... really... I'm so sorry, I never meant to scare you! But you were tossing and turning in your sleep and suddenly started yelling... I... just wanted to wake you..."

Rogue's voice is hoarse with held-back tears and his words only cause Sting to wail even harder, as his heart feels too grave and empty at the same time.

He had hurt his best friend, rejected his kindly offered comfort and shrugged him off brusquely and yet-here was Rogue apologizing.

It's too much for him, all the feelings crushing down at once, traversing through his body until he can't tell up from down, sees the room to spinning around him, as the air is forced out of his lungs.

He remembers the suffocating sensation from earlier and can almost smell the disgusting breath, taste the slick tongue...

He doesn't even realize, he's hyperventilating, gasping up too short gulps of air as blackness already creeps in on him, before his limbs start convulsing and lock up.

His ears only register a high-pitched, maddening ringing, until Rogue's voice – firm, but affectionate – breaks through the chaos.

"Sting! Look at me!" And the blonde finds himself complying helplessly, gaze now transfixed onto the warm, wine-red eyes brimming with concern.

Rogue is aching to pull Sting against his chest, but reigns himself in, when it occurs to him that the gesture wouldn't be all that welcomed right now.

Still, he cant restrain himself from guiding two tendrils of shadows, shaped like a pair of hands, towards the other boy, to brush his tear-stained cheek with a barely noticeable caress.

The blonde flinches at first contact but then allows the touch after a moment's hesitation, what cues Rogue to have his shadowy fingers thread through the soft, unruly golden bangs.

"Easy now!" He murmurs. "Easy! Take some deep breaths... Like this..."

He inhales thoroughly, then releases his breath slowly, encouraging Sting to mimic his actions.

And Sting tries. Though staggering and ragged at first, the intakes of air even out gradually.

"That's it, you're doing just great. Keep going. In... and out... Yeah, exactly like that... Don't stop, come on, breath with me!"

Rogue continues his instructions, keeps on praising and coaxing his friend, as he guides him through the attack, and his shadows never break contact, always tangled in blond strands or trailing over damp cheeks with steady, careful motions, but Sting still can't calm his pounding heart or reeling mind.

His muscles are yet to relax, as they spasm rock-hard with cramps and though an increasing amount of oxygen manages to flood his lungs, his head is still spinning and he feels like fainting any second.

Suddenly there's something ghosting over his knuckles, something incorporeal, yet perceptible and after the initiate impulse to draw back jerks through his arm, he recognizes the thing in question as another waft of swirling shadows.

Rogue waits patiently until Sting's gaze finally focuses on him again, then asks cautiously:

"May I try something? I promise I won't hurt you! And you can pull away when ever it gets too much... Just... give me a chance to help."

The nebulous hand is offered for the White Dragon Slayer to take it, palm turned up and fingers spread slightly in an attempt to appear as innocuous as possible.

Sting sucks in another painfully unstable breath, before he reaches for the patiently waiting hand and allows the soft fume to caress his finger-tips.

However, after a moment of fondling the sensitive skin, index and middle-finger start tapping a quick, erratic rhythm against his palm.

A rhythm, he now realizes, that matches his racing pulse, mimicking any stumbling and skipping of his aching heart with absolute perfection.

"Is this okay with you?" Rogue asks, his voice brittle with anxiety, while his eyes search for signs of augmenting distress in Sting's features - and darken, as the blonde shakes his head.

He quickly withdraws any shadowy tendril currently touching the other boy, but to his utter surprise Sting mumbles:

"No,... it's... I'd rather... You can" before sighing exasperatedly and slowly reaching for Rogue's real hand.

He hesitates briefly, but then swallows hard and grabs the pliant fingers.

"This is much better."

The whisper is so low, that even Rogue wonders if he'd just imagined it, but something seems to spark to life in Sting's eyes at the very moment, before he averts his gaze.

To the Shadow Dragon Slayer's utter delight, his shaken friend doesn't even flinch, as his pale, slender fingers start caressing the quivering palm ever so gently, trailing over cuts and scars lovingly, before resuming the gentle rapping.

"Focus on the rhythm! Just follow the rhythm! Keep on breathing... Easy... Shh... You're doing great!"

The soothing words wash over Sting's juggled consciousness like the waves of a warm, dark ocean and he allows himself to let go and be carried by their gentle sway, as he blocks out any sensations save for Rogue's voice and the ceaseless soft tapping.

"Yeah... that's it! You're safe now... Whatever they did to you... it's over! You're save here; I won't hurt you and I won't let anything happen to you!"

Rogue's repeats his gentle words of comfort over and over, until they turn into something akin to a prayer, a mantra almost lulling Sting to sleep. He feels his limbs getting heavy as tension finally seeps out of the taut muscles, leaving behind nothing but bone-deep exhaustion and weariness.

He dully realizes, that the rhythm of Rogue's fingers has slowed considerably and his heart has stopped its nauseating racing, while the spinning in his head finally comes to a halt.

He can breath freely now and his guts uncoil, ridding him of the restless churning and seizing that had tormented his stomach.

"Well done... You did really great! See, I knew you could pull through! It'll be fine now. Just keep on breathing!"

When Sting opens his tired eyes eventually, he finds Rogue smiling at him warmly, fingertips still trailing over his palm with fondness and caution, while his whole demeanour emits an unspoken promise of safety and solace.

"Feeling better, now?" He inquires quietly and receives a small nod as an answer, but the blonde still refuses to speak.

"What do you want me to do? Shall I help you to get back into bed? Do you need some water... Or... Please, tell me what I can do!"

Sting is absolutely overwhelmed by the patience and care Rogue provides so unconditionally and the mere thought of having treated him like some kind of threat now seems ridiculous and somewhat shameful.

This wasn't brute, malevolent Jiemma who had forced himself upon Sting with vile, repulsive actions-

this was Rogue.

Dear, empathic Rogue, all warmth and security, who would rather bite off his tongue, than ever causing him harm or distress.

So Sting does what his instincts tell him without listening to his still stalling mind, and lets himself slump forward against Rogue's chest, face buried in the soft fabric, as he curls up against his body.

"Sorry! I'm so sorry!" He sobs meekly into the black sweater, voice hoarse and trembling.

"I... I never wanted to hurt you... and I didn't mean those wor..."

"Hush! Shhh... It's alright. I'm not mad, I promise. It wasn't your fault, it was me who startled you. I'm the one who should apologize."

Sting only shakes his head jerkily, but his tense shoulders unwind ever so slightly, as the message sinks in and he presses himself closer against the soothing heat radiating off of Rogue.

Two arms wrap around his shivering body in an achingly tender way, giving Sting all the time in the world to reject the touch, but he only nuzzles the already tear-soaked fabric needily, as he allows himself to be held.

Rogue's hands trail over his hunched back in constant loose circles, and he starts rocking him back and forth gently, while he rests his chin carefully on top of Sting's head.

The blonde clings to him for dear life, still choking on every breath he draws, but the tears slowly subside.

Here, in the still of Rogue's arms, engulfed by the unique, intimate scent of everything earthen and warm, time seems to lose its relevance and after a meaningless number of minutes, the feeling of safety finally seeps into Sting's consciousness.

His body unwinds, limbs going lax and he sags heavier against the Shadow Dragon Slayer, unsurprised to find their heart beats completely in sync.

"Hey Rogue..." He whispers tentatively. "Would you mind staying up with me a little longer?"

"Of course not. But maybe we should get you back into bed... It's getting cold here on the floor."

And now Sting feels the chill creeping over his skin, too; so he is more than grateful, when Rogue steers him towards his bed and eases him down onto the mattress, before shuffling off to get the blankets.

When he returns, Sting manages a miserably shaky smile, but it's enough to give both of them some faith, that things would somehow be okay again someday.

"Did you.. The book.. Have you..." Sting suddenly stammers awkwardly with his hands fidgeting in his lap and Rogue breaths a small huff of laughter.

"Nah, I wouldn't dare reading without you. Why do you ask?"

Sting chews on his bottom-lip insecurely for a moment, before mumbling:

"Well, I don't think I can sleep just yet... and I thought, we could start now... but you're probably tired... I mean, it's the middle of the night and..."

He trails off, but the Shadow Dragon Slayer only smiles at him gently and makes straight for Sting's back, returning after some moments of rummaging with the book in question.

He slumps down onto his own bed, convinced that after the whole episode tonight, the other wouldn't be too keen on sharing a bed, when he feels his mattress dip and Sting wriggles his way under the blanket.

He looks at the blonde incredulously for a moment, before a soft smile lightens his face and he, too, slides beneath the sheets.

Sting had surprised himself with his own boldness, but this was the way things were supposed to be- and his tumbled mind craves normality, needs something familiar to cling to until he stops feeling the world crumbling away beneath his feet.

Once again he's reluctant to make contact and has to remind himself, that there was nothing to be afraid of, that this was something they had done countless times before and he'd cherished it.

So if he shied away from it now, distanced himself from Rogue because of something the other wasn't even to blame for, Jiemma would have won.

He knows, if he wants to have at least a chance of somehow overcoming what had been done to him, he would have to trust his best friend.

So he leans in and snuggles up against Rogue's side with his cheek resting against the firm shoulder, as his eyes keep trailing over the pages and a comfortable silence settles over the room.

After twenty-something minutes the weight settling against Rogue's shoulder increases, until Sting's body goes completely limp and sinks into his lap, eyes closed and face completely relaxed.

The Shadow Dragon Slayer breaths a small chuckle and carefully guides the sleeping boy's head to rest comfortably on the pillow, before turning to leave the bed without a sound.

He hasn't even gotten to his feet, yet, when he is stopped by a weak hand gripping the hem of his shirt.

When he turns around, eyebrow raised questioningly, he finds sapphire eyes looking up to him groggily and pleading.

"Stay here? Please?" The blonde slurs, before his lids slide shut again and the hand restraining Rogue falls away.

The dark haired boy stares at his friend for another few seconds, grateful albeit surprised, before climbing back into his bed, carefully reaching for Sting's hand.

With a little squeeze he coaxes him awake, locking gaze with hazy, gemstone-blue eyes and his features become a little more sombre.

There's something he needs to make his friend understand, something important, so even though it pains him, he won't allow him to sleep just yet.

"Sting, promise me something!"

"Whad issit?" The weary answer is contorted by a yawn, but Sting manages to keep his eyes open.

"Promise me, that whenever you're ready or feel like it, you'll find someone, whom you trust and you'll talk about what happened tonight! It doesn't have to be me, if that makes you uncomfortable. Just... someone you're okay with. Talk to them and let yourself be comforted."

Sting only gasps quietly at the selflessness and affection in Rogue's words and lies with bated breath, as the other one continues.

"I have no idea, what that bastard did to you, but it must have been something horrible and traumatizing. This fucktard has already hurt you enough, so please don't let him destroy you by bottling it all up and letting it fester. Promise me, you will allow yourself to heal!"

He gives the now quivering fingers another firm squeeze and his heart clenches, as he sees two or three stray tears spilling from Sting's eyes once again, but before he can even reach put, to brush them away, the blonde has already buried his face in the crook of his neck, one hand still grasping Rogue's the other one fisted into the back of his shirt.

A heart beat passes, then he nods eagerly against his best friend's shoulder and breathes:

"As long as I've got you, I'll be fine again, someday."

Rogue feels the heat of a blush rising in his cheeks, but the words also set something aglow in his chest and he busies his fingers with carding ardently through Sting's hair, who sighs contently and snuggles closer.

The Holy Dragon Slayer uses his last conscious breath to whisper a soft "G'dnight, Rogue..." into the night and finally lets the alluring nothingness pull him in, taking the sensation of the softest of kisses being pressed to his crown down with him.


End file.
